What Baseball Taught Me About Theology—and What Theology Taught Me About Baseball

Some of my earliest memories involve baseball.

Long before I became a pastor, author, or teacher, I was a boy growing up captivated by the game. More specifically, I was captivated by the Cincinnati Reds. The legendary Big Red Machine of the 1970s became my first sports obsession. I followed the exploits of Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Tony Pérez, Dave Concepción, and perhaps most of all, Johnny Bench. To me, they were larger than life.

As the years passed, my appreciation for baseball only deepened. Then one of life's unexpected blessings occurred: I had the opportunity not only to meet my childhood hero, Johnny Bench, but to become friends with him. It remains one of those surreal experiences that reminds me how gracious God can be in weaving together the passions of our youth and the relationships of our adulthood.

What surprises many people is how much baseball has shaped the way I think about theology—and how theology has shaped the way I understand baseball.

The first lesson baseball taught me was about failure.

In baseball, failure is not an exception; it is the norm. A batter who succeeds three times out of ten is considered a star. A Hall of Fame career can be built on failing seventy percent of the time.

Think about that for a moment.

No other profession celebrates that kind of success rate. Yet baseball understands something profound about the human condition: perfection is impossible.

Theologically, that sounds remarkably familiar.

Scripture tells us that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23). Every one of us strikes out. Every one of us misses the mark. Every one of us experiences moments when we fail ourselves, others, and God.

The beauty of Christianity is that failure never gets the final word.

A batter gets another at-bat. A believer receives another opportunity through grace. The gospel reminds us that our identity is not determined by our worst performance but by God's love and mercy. Every day becomes another chance to step into the batter's box.

Baseball also taught me patience.

The game moves at its own pace. There is no clock to save you. There is no shortcut to the ninth inning. Every out must be recorded. Every inning must be played.

Likewise, God's work in our lives often unfolds more slowly than we would like.

As someone who has endured hemophilia, HIV, hepatitis C, diabetes, open-heart surgery, and a stroke, I can testify that spiritual growth rarely happens overnight. Some of life's greatest lessons emerge over years rather than days. Healing often comes gradually. Wisdom develops through seasons.

Baseball teaches patience because baseball refuses to be rushed. Theology teaches patience because God often refuses to be hurried.

The game also taught me the importance of community.

The Big Red Machine was filled with stars, but no single player won championships alone. Johnny Bench may have been the face of the franchise, but he needed Joe Morgan turning double plays, Tony Pérez driving in runs, and pitchers capable of protecting leads.

The Christian life works the same way.

The Apostle Paul describes the Church as a body where every member has a role to play. Some are visible. Others serve quietly. Some preach. Others pray. Some teach. Others encourage. Yet all are essential.

One of the great temptations in ministry is believing that certain people matter more than others. Baseball reminds us otherwise. A championship team requires every player. So does the Kingdom of God.

Another lesson baseball taught me is perseverance.

A major league season consists of 162 games. No team wins them all. Every club endures losing streaks. Every player experiences slumps. The question is never whether adversity will come but how you respond when it arrives.

That lesson became especially meaningful after my stroke.

Before the stroke, I could write quickly and think effortlessly. Afterward, tasks that once seemed simple became difficult. There were moments when discouragement threatened to overwhelm me. Yet baseball had already taught me that one bad game does not define a season.

Likewise, one difficult chapter does not define a life.

The Christian faith continually calls believers to perseverance. We keep showing up. We keep trusting. We keep taking the next faithful step even when we cannot see the entire journey ahead.

Perhaps the greatest connection between baseball and theology is hope.

Every spring, baseball begins again.

The standings are reset. Every team believes this might be its year. Fans dream of possibilities not yet realized. Hope fills every clubhouse and every stadium.

The Christian faith is built upon a similar hope.

Not wishful thinking, but confidence rooted in the promises of God.

The resurrection of Jesus is Christianity's ultimate declaration that defeat does not have the final word. What appeared to be loss became victory. What looked like death became life.

Every dramatic ninth-inning comeback offers a small reminder of that larger truth.

Theology, however, also teaches something important about baseball.

It reminds us that baseball is a gift but not a god.

Statistics, championships, awards, and achievements can never provide ultimate meaning. Even our heroes are human. Even our greatest moments eventually pass.

As much as I admired Johnny Bench growing up—and as grateful as I am for our friendship today—I have learned that every hero ultimately points beyond themselves.

The greatest players eventually retire.

The greatest teams eventually fade.

The greatest records are eventually broken.

But God's faithfulness endures forever.

That may be the most important lesson baseball and theology share. Both teach us that life is bigger than any single victory or defeat. Both teach us humility. Both teach us perseverance. Both teach us hope.

And every time I see a Cincinnati Reds cap, think about the Big Red Machine, or remember conversations with Johnny Bench, I am reminded of a simple truth:

Baseball taught me something about God long before I fully understood theology. And theology taught me why the lessons of baseball mattered all along.

Both continue to remind me that grace is real, hope is alive, and there is always another inning to play.